(no subject)

Mar 30, 2013 00:10

I leave Ghana April 3rd, almost four years to the day I first set foot on the continent of Africa. In a lot of ways, finishing Peace Corps has been more work than it took to get in. Sure, there's always papers to sign, work descriptions to write, and accounts to close no matter what paths I take in life, but this is something beyond what I'd ever imagined.

Any jovial grandmother who's ever sold me tomatoes needs to be greeted and told that I'm leaving, possibly to never come back. I should have a final exchange with any crusty old man who has ever helped me load rolls of aluminum or cords of wood onto a lorry. The woman who holds my tickets for me at the bus station, the taxi driver who always comes no matter the hour, the fried noodle guy and the bread woman, the lady who sells kola nuts (which I will never buy, hence our friendship), the small girl I always hire to carry loads in the market - they all need to know I'm leaving. I have to leave well, I can't "just go like that."

And then there's all the PCVs I need to hug, to reminisce with, to take a two-hour tro ride to see one last time. And I have bags to pack, luggage to consolidate, weight limits to consider and a fine line to walk between returning home with clothes I will actually wear on a regular basis or the rainbow track suit I just had tailored. There are Chacos to wash, jeans to mend, and a room to clean. I have to find a jacket for my trip home (I hear it's cold in some parts of the world?) and suck down enough Vitamin C to shake this nagging cough. I left my village yesterday, saying my good-byes over the course of two days and strengthening throat muscles I never knew I had as I held myself in constant check to keep from crying every time an old woman gave me a toothless grin or a child waved, shouting my local name, "Balima! Balima!"

There's a lot going on, a lot of boxes to be checked, items to be crossed off my list.

One of them was to write a blog about malaria.

Two years ago, I was chosen to attend the first ever Stomping Out Malaria in Africa boot camp, held by Peace Corps Senegal. A handful of us from countries all over Africa went, not knowing what to expect (except good food - we always Google the food options), but returning even more emboldened to join in on the fight against this deadly parasite. I was ready for action, armed with knowledge and a passion for my new mission that quickly spread to other Peace Corps Volunteers. We now have in Ghana what is called the SWAT Team (Standing With Africa to Terminate Malaria) and we're doing a pretty good job at getting the word out at the grassroots level on how to prevent and treat cases of malaria. Volunteers are on the ground, working every day with community members to make sure people are using their bed nets properly, caring for them well, seeking prompt treatment at local clinics for suspected cases of malaria and getting the correct medication when those cases are confirmed. They work side-by-side with community health workers to encourage women to take their prophylaxis several times throughout their pregnancy to prevent anemia, a low birth weight, even death - real dangers that go hand-in-hand with malaria. They use pictures and flash cards, dramas and role-plays, posters and radio spots to get the message out. All PCVs are taught about malaria in-depth during their training now and we even hold quarterly meetings and have refresher courses once a year. Our program in Ghana has emerged as one of the strongest and we're really proud of that.

Work on malaria - check
Blog about it - slides below greeting the post office clerk

When I was at home in my village, the last night there, I sat on the front porch with my landlord, Sadi, as the rain rolled in. The electricity was out, but there was a breeze and the moon gave everything a silver glow as thunder pounded in the distance. We sat in the dark and talked about anything and everything - how the rains were early this year and what he would plant, how he has to pay back a fertilizer debt after he harvests, his progress on building a house in Savelugu (the nearby town that signifies a step up from the village life) to move his family to in the dry season. As best I could in Dagbani, I told him about wanting to go back to school and study public health, about how many trips between Tamale and Accra the airplane ride to America would be and how us PCVs had finally seen those elusive camels we'd been searching for. We talked over two hours until both of us were exhausted and we set our mats out on the veranda to sleep. With nothing to do but stare into the darkness, I played our conversation over in my head, trying to wrap my mind around it possibly being our last meaningful talk together.

But one thing he said was stuck on repeat.

He told me that six of his children had died before the age of five.

Six. Children.

It might sound odd, but it's something that comes up in conversation often. It's so common here, to lose a child, two, three. Sadi's not even thirty-five. Three of the four living children he has now aren't yet five and Fuseina, his oldest, is just five-and-a-half. It reminded me how much of a landmark that age is here. It reminded me that, even though two-year-old Yishogu, who's stunted and has just begun to walk and talk, seemed like he was picking up, but he's still not out of the woods yet. It reminded me that six-month-old Alhassan could suffer the same fate as his deceased twin brother did back in January. It reminded me that no child is safe on this continent until health issues like malaria are stopped and this blog shouldn't be a simple box I needed to check.

I've reached the age where babies seem to be falling from the sky between my friends back in America. So many new births, so many joy-filled phone calls, so many close-ups of sleeping infants to 'Like' and comment on. I can't wait to hold every single one of them and shower them with kisses and smell their hair and feel their tiny fingers curl around my thumb. But seeing all these new babies reminds me of how I'm leaving my own Little Bit behind in a few days.

Fuseina will be safe in the arms of a family that loves her and wants only the best for her, but it's hard to leave knowing the problems she'll face growing up in the developing world. It's hard to give up any control I may have thought I had when I was just a taxi ride away with the hospital nearby and enough money in the bank. It's hard to know I may hear about a fever too late. It's hard to know she could become a statistic, one of the 650,000 people who die every year from this entirely preventable sickness.

So, I've done what I could - I have talked with the family she's living with, educated them on the signs of malaria, taught them how to use their nets and how they're important, even during dry season. I've shown them the correct medicine to buy, pointed out the green leaf that signifies it's a legitimate drug, and counseled them on the necessity of using the entire course to prevent resistance. Even then, I know that anything can happen no matter how hard any of us try. Just ask Sadi.

But she won't ever be a statistic or a box I can check off. And I hope she's not to you either. Her name is Fuseina Abubakari and she's five and a half years old. Her best friends are Laciba and Mandeeya. She likes to sing and dance and steal my headlamp when I'm not looking. She can say the alphabet and the days of the week in English now and is insanely delighted by running water in the shower. She likes to sneak candy before dinner and always falls asleep in the middle of a movie.

She also lives in Ghana, where she, Laciba, Mandeeya and every other child like them are at risk to contract malaria every single day. World Malaria Day is approaching - April 25th - and to find out more about how you can get involved in the fight, check out the Stomp website or go here to visit Malaria No More.

malaria

Previous post Next post
Up